by Kerri Ann
“You’ll be fine here with Panna.” Kissing me lightly on the head, he starts away. “I’ll be about an hour or so, but you’ll be fine.”
“You said that twice.” Winking, I smile at him. “I’ll be just fine, Lu—Busta,” I correct myself before I call him Lucius.
The look on Pandora’s face says it all. He’s not called Lucius here. He said to call him Busta, so from now on, that’s what I’ll call him.
Feeling he’s left me in capable hands, he turns his sights on the guys in the room and yells out, “Church. Now.”
Stomping away down a hall, he’s gone. As are a large deal of the men. Some kiss their girls, others do up their jeans or wipe their mouths, but all saunter away behind Lucius.
Chapter Eighteen
Oubliette
Standing in the now emptied room, feeling like one of those colorful fish in a tiny bag, the room is decidedly different. The men have left Pandora and a few other ladies, younger guys without patches on their cuts, and the man behind the bar.
Pandora taps me on the shoulder and smiles, knocking me out of the inspection. “Come, sit. You look a little bewildered.”
Exactly. “Overwhelmed is more like it. It’s been a whirlwind.”
With a laugh that sounds like tinkling chimes, Pandora smiles. “Come on. Come have a drink and tell me about you then. We’ll start with the easy stuff, and work up to the hard junk.”
I shake my head. “I’m good. I don’t need a—”
“Of course you do. You’ve been through a ton and I’m sure we have your brew. Right, Quiver?”
“Anything for you, Panna, and your new friend here.” Setting down the cup with others, his sweet smile lights up the room. “I’m Monty. Everyone calls me Quiver, though.”
“Oubliette,” I say, taking a seat.
“What’s your poison, little lady?”
After the days that have led up to this, I go for the gusto. “Tequila. Two shots, no lime, but I’d be happy with a bottle of sriracha.”
Scowling, he shows me his distaste. “That sounds awful, but what the lady wants...”
“Then make it three and give it a try. You’ll find it’s not bad at all.” Pouring the shots, I inspect Quiver. He’s around my height, five-five or so. Stout, over thirty I’d say, judging by the few grays. Strong arms with tattoos that course each. Dark eyes, light skin, and a sweet smile. “No way, girl. I can’t do that. My ulcer would explode.” He taps his slightly rotund stomach. “That’s why I’m the bartender. It keeps the profits in the business.”
“Makes sense.” Swiping up the sriracha, dribbling a few drops in each shot, I pick up the first one and down it quick. The fire and flare rushes straight to my blood. It feels perfect.
Better than coffee.
Grabbing the second, I down it just as quick in the same manner and lick my lips. “Line up two more, please.”
“Thought you didn’t wanna drink?” Quiver man-giggles as he pours.
“Guess I changed my mind based on the lovely companions.”
Looking at Pandora, her wide eyes tell me more than words could. “Run it down. I’m a pretty good listener.”
“Not much to tell. I’m a bartender at a club and I have a big brother.” Pandora’s company and sweet smile makes me feel at ease. I don’t know if saying I work at a rival club, that I was kidnapped, and subsequently I’ve been having sex with Lucius is really any of her business, so I keep that to myself.
“Here, Pan.” Placing a white wine before her, Quiver goes back to polishing glasses.
“Thanks, Quiv.” Picking it up, she turns to me. “That seemed like the edited CliffsNotes version, but for now, I’ll take it. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. But if you feel like you need someone, I’m here. I’ve been around long enough with Retribution, my partner, that I know where the bodies are buried, as it were.”
I wouldn’t doubt that. To be honest, she probably helped over the years to bury them.
Sucking back on one of the newly setup shots, I smile. “True enough.”
“Look, Oubliette, it’s not my business, but I’m gonna give you a bit of insight. In the five or so years that young man has been here, I’ve yet to see him wander in with a girl—woman or otherwise. He toys with the whores but that’s it. He’s never been solid on anyone. And I can say he’s never sweet enough to lay a kiss on a forehead and worry that they’re in the right hands.” With a wink, she picks up her glass and starts away. “I’ll be over there waiting on Ret. If you feel like joining, I promise the ladies will be good to you. If you’d rather sit here with Quiver, that’s fine too. Just do Busta a favor. Don’t walk off.”
“Thanks. I’ll consider that.” With a nod, she walks off to the far side of the room, leaving me and Quiver at the bar.
Staying put, only because the bar feels appropriate to me, we talk about stupid drink shit for a while. It leads, of course, to further shots, dumb conversations about movies, politics, and the true reason women buy lingerie, but I enjoy the time as it passes.
Setting my latest soldier on the counter, I rise. “Which way to the bathroom, Quiver?”
“Down there, third door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I say as I wander on wobbly legs down the hall farthest from the meeting, and away from the common area. Counting down until I hit the third door, I push it open, nearly knocking over a woman that I thought was leaving. She bounces the door closed behind me.
“Hi,” I say with a drunk grin. “’Scuse me.”
“You don’t belong here.”
“Don’t I know that,” I mutter.
“Then why are you here?” she asks, all attitude.
“Busta brought me here for safe keeping.”
“Well, you can just walk your pristine little ass right out the front and keep on walkin’.” Laying a hand on the door to the stall, she blocks my way. I really, really need to pee. Her stopping me is probably not the best idea. My fight or flight always ramps up with bitches that think they know what’s best for me.
Placing a hand on the same door, right beside hers, I smile sweetly. “Cunt much? Get out of my way. I need to pee, and I don’t have time for your pissing match. Get it? Pissing match?” My addled brain thinks it’s worth the humor, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to lead to a catfight.
“This isn’t a music festival in the valley.” Not the first time I’ve been picked on for my hobo chic attire and windswept hair, but I’m wearing Busta’s T-shirt and my short shorts. Right now, it’s more boyfriend hobo. “You think you belong here? That you can come here and cause trouble? Busta doesn’t want you. You’re a toy. A trophy. The white chick he can bang and say he’s had one. Just remember, he’ll always return to a sister. We can give him what he wants.”
Laughing out loud at her audacity and blatant stupidity, I see her seething inside. “Bitch, get out of my way. If you want to fight me after I pee, game on. But I doubt you want me peeing on your Walmart specials.” Pushing on the door, causing her to release it, I step in and lock it. Releasing the building pressure in my bladder as fast as I can, I hear her outside the door, tapping her dime-store hooker shoes on the floor. I’ve dealt with whores and strippers at Humble for years, and this one is no different. Every woman wants to mark their territory on the man they think is theirs. She’s just doing it right off the bat with the wrong girl. I’ll give her points for the lady balls she owns, though. She doesn’t know anything of me, and it’s funny she already assumes I’m a threat.
No worries, sweetheart. I am.
Popping the lock, stepping out and proceeding to wash my hands, the girl stands to the side with her arms crossed and a sly look on her face. Drying my hands, I turn her way. “So?”
Taking a step forward, uncurling her arms and stretching out to hit me, I duck. That was so televised it wasn’t funny. Swinging again, I duck again.
“If you’re going to hit me, get on with it,” I taunt her. Not my best idea, but she’s sluggish, and a really
poor fighter.
Taking another swing, I smack it away. Being a bit cocky, I don’t notice the wild open-handed smack coming on the right. I feel the sting where her ring hits me, and I realize she’d turned it around.
Striking out wildly, with no rhyme or reason to her throws, she continues, hoping to connect. Luckily, I swing out and connect with her jaw. Shocked, she takes a step back, cradling her face as if I’d broken her teeth.
“You hit me! I did nothing to you! Busta will hear about this!” Tears start, total alligator tears, but tears nonetheless as she starts for the door.
Pulling it open and running down the hall, she screams and carries on. What a fake cunt.
Shit.
She set me up for that.
Looking at the cut along my cheek just below my eye, I cuss. Dabbing it with water and a moist cloth, I try to cool the marred skin. Now I have a mark on me, and that will be a conversation with Busta I’m not looking forward to.
Shit.
I would feel welcomed by the women, he said.
I’d feel at home, he said.
Bullshit.
I call bullshit, Lucius.
Chapter Nineteen
Busta
“Run it down,” I say once the door closes.
The first order of business—picking a new president. By default, when True died, I took the reins. Thing is, I wanted a change in the club, which then made that position precarious. To take the seat by force, to take it by default, or to define the position by what the old guard had, that wouldn’t change anything. I needed the votes cast. It had to be from the members directly.
This shit was about to go diplomatic. Like other clubs. Like my family’s club.
Like the Four Horsemen.
Munch, the man who loves numbers almost as much as he loves Gazelle, reads off the vote. “With thirty-eight votes total, from the main and satellite clubs, there were twenty-seven for Busta and eleven for Blaze.” Looking my way, he lays out the votes. I know what it means.
“Busta is the new president by vote.”
To say I’m shocked is an understatement. I’m fucking floored. I thought for sure the boys would vote more for Blaze—a man who was born into this club—and less for me. Though it seems a few of those brothers voted my way.
I’ll do my fucking damnedest to honor those votes and show them I can do good things with this club.
“Okay.” Taking the empty seat at the end of the table and moving the gavel to the side, I take up the mantle of president. “Let’s get down to it then.” Running out the ideas I’ve had on how to team up with the other clubs in the area, and how to run a cleaner club, I tell them how it is in my mind. We’ll vote this shit out until we have a solid agreement on our hands as a family and as a stronger club. It could take a few meets, but I’m not about to give King and his goons further reasons to run us up to Chino or San Q. We’re going legit.
After a couple hours behind the closed doors, we’re just as indecisive in our changes as we were when we walked in. Now I understand why DG was a dictator. With shouting, cursing, threats—some idle and others downright deadly, I’m losing my patience. Thank fuck we don’t allow weapons in here. I’d have shot at least six of my brothers for their childish bickering.
We’ve been stuck on the business of the cartel and our supply run of flesh. The cursing, whining, and pouting about a loss in profits has left us sounding like a bitchy bunch of cocksuckers.
Rubbing my temples and cracking my neck to release the tension, I’m reminded that I left Obi out there in the care of women she doesn’t know. Yeah, Obi has handled everything in stride, but it’s still a lot to ask of her to deal with.
“You fuckin’ kidding me! They won’t be happy losing profits. The Alta Noche won’t like us exiting the business. They’d make us pay for it.” Flight is right, but he’s not giving me a solution. None of them are.
“Who gives a shit about Alta? They’re not our club. If our pres wants to go legit, to find other sources of income, then why aren’t we figuring this out instead of bitching like whores?” Munch pipes up. His natural, subtle calm is stewing.
I’ve watched him. For the past hour, he’s doodled on his notepad, laying out numbers, thoughts, and stacks of scribblings from his analytical brain.
“Whatcha got then, Munch?” I ask, knowing he has something devised, and I, myself, would like to know what it is.
Yeah, I know he wants out of here to check on Gazelle. After the knife incident, she’s been in his charge twenty-four seven. She stays in his quarters, bedridden, and under strict orders to be careful. He still won’t admit he loves her, or at the least that he cares for her. I now understand why he’s antsy to check on her. I am with Obi too.
Leaning over his notepad, tapping it with his pen, I watch as he worries the inside of his cheek.
“Well, I see it this way. You want legit, right? We don’t need further heat because we leave the Alta, and I think we’ve had enough of all-out war with the Horsemen and Bastards.” Looking to me, I nod in agreement. “You have an understanding with Death, right?”
“Yeah, I think we’re on terms that suit us both. Why?” I ask.
He looks at Miss. “You still have a sister at the Bastards?”
“Yeah. Josie’s with the VP, Sinner. What are ya thinking, bro?” Josie and Single Miss are twins. Both dark, tall, lanky, and scary as fuck. Each are kind of fucked in their own way, and simply twisted. I guess that’s why I made sure to sway the votes to make him the replacement for me. He’s the new enforcer, a perfect position for him. I know he’ll do what’s needed when the club needs it.
“Can you give her a shout and see if we can arrange a sit?” Munch still hasn’t explained his plan, but I know his idea of tying up the space between the clubs could be a good thing. Especially when we’re dealing with King. Only Death and I have an understanding, and it’s time we brought the Heartless Bastards in on it.
Turning his pad toward us, Munch squints. “This is going to be a monster coup to pull off, but when we’re done, I think we’ll come out on top.”
Plowing through it, flipping pages, showing us the numbers, the facts of his mastermind fuckery, I feel a sudden sense of gaiety. We’re going to do this. We’re going to do this as a club, moving forward from the past.
We’ll be stronger for it.
When he’s all done, Munch has the full agreement of the room.
Finally, something we can agree on—money.
Relaxing back in my chair, I lift the gavel off the table. “We done for today, brothers?” With a resounding silence, most nod their agreement. “Good, because my ass is fucking numb from sitting here.”
Hitting the gavel on the block for the first time, the vibration courses through my hand in a wonderful way. I’m creating the club we should’ve had all along, the kind I should’ve had all along in the Cruel Intentions back home.
While brothers rise and leave, others step over and pat me on the back or shake my hand. I appreciate it all. It’s still surreal, though. Looking down at my cut, the one that needs adjustments in patches, I still don’t believe I’m the head of this helm.
“Good to see you,” Blaze states as he approaches me with a firm handshake and a smile. “The right man will be the one who fixes us. I know you’ll lead us right.”
“I’ll do what’s right. I won’t lead like DG.” I won’t speak ill of the dead, but a heavy-handed leadership didn’t do the club right. We were more a gang of thugs than a biker club. “I knew we needed a change, and I think this will be the right way. We couldn’t keep losing membership to a bullet.”
“Exactly. And I’m glad you have a—” Pausing, Blaze looks to the hallway. “What the fuck you think’s going on out there?”
Hearing loud shouting, it causes us to halt and listen.
Fuck. Obi.
“Hey, mind if we chat more later? I have to check on a guest.”
He grins wide, showcasing his bright white teeth. “Yeah, g
o.”
Stepping out into the hall, the shouting and cursing grows louder. I don’t hear Oubliette exactly, but I’m not sure if that leaves me more or less fearful.
Walking into the common area, the guys are settled around the bar, along with the majority of the women. Even Panna. I don’t remember her letting her ‘weave down’ before, but there she is with shots lined up, sucking back one after the other, facing the bartender and racing to the end of the small cups. Quiver hasn’t drank in years—his ulcer taking its toll—so I know it’s not him. Thing is, I don’t see who it is.
I have a feeling, though.
“Cocksucker! Cocksucker!” A few of the brothers recite, laughing and grinning.
Approaching the bar, I look down the line. I knew it. “Fine, I’ll make more.” Waving her hands in a downward motion, swinging them as if she’s calming, and not causing a clamor, Obi looks right at home. I forgot how fucking sexy she looked behind the bar mixing drinks at Humble, and I’m floored to watch her now. It’s perfection. Pouring them into the shooters, lighting them up with matches and throwing her personal sparkle to them, Obi slips one across to Pan.
Picking it up and downing it quick, she blows out a hot breath of smoke. “You’re supposed to hold it in. Swallow, woman!” Obi yells, laughing before she sees me down the counter.
“Busta!” She grins before her face falls. “Or should I say, President Busta?”
I step in front of her. “How long have you been the bartender?”
Shrugging with half-closed lids, she pinches two fingers together. “For a bit.”
Looking at her straight on, I see the shiner that’s taking shape.
“Who the fuck hit you, Obi?”
The room stills, the jubilation dying down, and the brothers start to slowly shift away from the bar with their girls in tow. “I’m fine, Busta. It’s a scratch.”
“Obi,” I say, grinding my teeth together. My nerves that were once relaxed are now ramping back up to cause havoc.